Ambulando

HK could be everyplace.
Imagine Beijing, cum New York, cum London, cum Johannesburg, cum Mumbay.
Chiba city does exist in Kowloon, under the name of Chungking Mansion.
Still I could not find any retractable steel razors to be implanted under my nails and when I asked for a mono-molecular lazo, I was given puzzled looks.
The same look you would have now if you reading this, I suspect. Sorry, it is a geeky thing.

But I could buy any sort of mobile from vintage Nokia to still to be released ones, and would-like-to-be iPad and any sort of tablet, and other service I could need in a self contained world in a building.
As I am not interested in mobiles and I am still not into tables (I got one, and I use it to read e-books, just because it was cheaper than buying an actual reader), I decided to have an haircut instead.
The barber is Indian and charged me 6 euro for the haircut and the beard trimming, the same as the Pakistan guy I use to go in Barcelona. Same school of cutting hair: trimming machine, some drops of water applied with fingers on skin, a few strokes of razor to clean neck and under ears, lot of brishing with talc. It was was care to check if blade was new, and it was.
Then washing away the left over was left to me.
Well, at least they do not ask me to wash my hair by myself in the sink, as I was asked once in Parma.
With a new haircut (actually the old one but shorter), I went to my room.
My room in Chiba city is a 4 squared meters hole, bathroom included, on the 10th floor and I have the luxury of a windows, on the airwell and closed by a grid.
It is hot and even the air conditioning struggle to mantain a bearable breeze.
Outside my room, as I said, it is a suk.
Everything is on sale, everyone is selling or buying something, all colors are equally represented.
Big black African mama sell hair whigs and extension while hip hop cuties with treces checks on yellow LA Lakers t-shirt. Turbaned men with long beard and sandals and big bellies share space with over-trained balck studs in Adidas. Moustached turks smoke placid at food stall sipping tea.
Every other shop is an Arabic or Indian restaurant. Spices’ flavour mask the salty sweat smell of an indoor market at tropical temperature, and Asian pop is keeping air conditioning hum in the backgroung.
One thousand mobile phones set off all together.
Overweight Indian kids run around, looked after by the guards at the lift, whose other apparent task seems to be keeping the finger on the call button when the lift is at the floor.
At the entrance touts try selling you replica watches or oddly tailored suits.
As usual, they stop bothering you after they have seen you for a while waiting for the same lift.
I am not interested in watches, not even the autentic one. I bought two replica Casio in Cina, and instead of exact time I got an rash on my wrist. I am allergic.
So I am tempted to try the tailor service. At least a shirt.
But I doubt I could get it on time. My plane is due in three days, or at least, so I think.